Page 43 of A Good Prospect

Tyke glanced at Abel and they shared a chuckle. “Is that so? Well, you can go ahead and try to liberate the Frogs, Mr. Palomares. I’m just surprised you were able to stop fondling each other’s darkie cocks for long enough to think about something else.”

Good God.Ophir had an instant sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was not only the way Sal’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed—Ophir had witnessed that spectacle often enough and it was always very awe-inspiring, but now there was an overtone of menace, and Ophir braced himself to jump into the fray. The Sonorans behind Sal, too, cocked their hammers. Ophir doubted they understood most of Tyke’s meaning, but they could tell sure enough by the whip-like tension in Sal’s body that he had finally had enough from this pendejo.

Sal snarled something so quiet, Ophir had to angle his head toward his friend. “¡Véte ál carajo!” Go to hell! But instead of shooting the scum of the mud of hell, an action that would have caused a major melee the likes of which hadn’t been seen since before the Mexican war, in one flash of a motion Sal bent to yank the knife he always kept in his zapatones and hurled it directly at Tyke’s heart.

He was so swift and sure, Ophir knew that knife would have stuck in an oak trunk up to the hilt. But apparently Tyke’s intuition and experience with running like a yellow yokel was so acute, being the escaped convict he was, he was able to reach aside and grab that big boulder of a dunce, Abel, and use him as a shield.

“Argh!” gurgled Abel as he clutched his own heart, although since he was a foot taller than Tyke, the knife had gone into his belly.

Immediately Tyke darted out from behind Abel, leaving Abel to fall to the dirt like a hewn pine, and took cover behind the ox-cart. Simultaneously, about half of the Sonorans behind Sal dismounted and took several menacing steps forward, their weapons at the ready, while all the carousing looters seemed to think it wiser to just amble backward, whistling at the clouds as though they’d seen nothing. Some ten died-in-the-wool League men bunched up their muscles and stood their ground, but it was obvious they’d be dead ducks against the fury of the miners who had been deprived of their livelihood.

“You stabbed Abel!” Tyke growled from behind the ox-cart wheel.

It was simple for Ophir to dash around the back of the wagon and haul Tyke up by the shirt collar. “Yeah, well it was supposed to be you!” Ophir dragged him into the open, rattling him a bit for good measure. Oh, how he wanted to kick that son of a bitch into the next world with his pointy-toed Californio boots! He had run roughshod over the serene valleys and rivers that had belonged to Salvador’s father, he had desecrated the land with his oyster tins and whiskey bottles, and now he accused them of being some perverted greenhorn outlanders?

Ophir trembled with rage, but it was Sal’s business to confront the mewling worm. He was the one who had launched the knife at him—he was the one whose land had been overridden by these outcasts.

So, completely ignoring the mountainous form of Abel who rolled piggishly on his back nearby, Sal marched right up and gripped the front of Tyke’s shirtfront in his fist, like he had the time he’d rubbed him raw on the oak trunk. Agitating the convict in the air, he snarled, “Now. I want you to release the two Frenchmen. And I want a promise that there will be no more ejection of Spaniards from any mines, as far as I can believe any promise made by Alcalde McCarthy.”

“Sure,” mumbled Tyke.

Sal rattled him more fiercely until his misshapen hat rolled to the dirt. “What did you say?”

“Sure! I’ll release the Frenchmen! Whatever your poofy little heart desires!”

Salvador drew his fist and delivered a wallop so sound and solid, Ophir’s face lit up with pride. Tyke’s nose crunched as the fist connected, his head jerking and thudding against the dirt. As expected, several League men made threatening gestures toward Sal, and Tyke never lost his wobbly grin. He looked as though he would spit a tooth at Sal as he lifted his head and ordered some men,

“Reiner! Howard! Go get the Frenchmen!”

So Ophir and Sal retreated to their mounts, never turning their backs on those men who loathed the law.

“You don’t know what sort of bee’s hive you’re stirring up, Palomares,” Tyke seethed, wiping his bloody nose on his hand.

Sal appeared entirely unconcerned, his unruffled countenance as smooth as ever. “Bring the Frenchmen to meet us at Savage’s trading post,” he instructed as he mounted.